


Prayer of Saint Francis

by mixeduppainter



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-12
Updated: 2012-12-12
Packaged: 2017-11-20 23:48:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/591061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mixeduppainter/pseuds/mixeduppainter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean and Castiel are both back from Purgatory but they're not without their scars.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prayer of Saint Francis

**Author's Note:**

> This is set after 7.07 but the timing is nonspecific.  
> For bonus reading, I recommend looking up the actual prayer of Saint Francis. In the meantime, enjoy!

PRAYER OF SAINT FRANCIS

Sam and Dean shuffle into their motel room, shucking coats and shoes without even turning on a light. Sam heads straight for his bed. Dean hesitates, checking the door to make sure it’s locked.  
“Shower?” he asks.  
“Too tired. Go ahead.” Sam answers with his face pressed into the threadbare bedspread and his legs hanging over the side, toes grazing the floor. After a moment, he shoves himself higher and his head drops onto the pillow.  
Dean nods. Sam is asleep before he makes it to the bathroom.  
Showering still feels like a borrowed habit, something he does but can’t remember the purpose of. Running water and scratchy motel towels are artifacts of another life, a life he reenacts every day, going through the motions so he can’t feel his heart pounding in his chest.  
He tips his head under the warm shower spray. Shadows have been creeping around all day. Dean catches them in the corner of his eye but when he turns they’re always gone. He rolls his neck, stretching tense, protesting muscle. Seeing things. Hearing things. The familiar sounds of Purgatory wrapping him like an unwelcome blanket. The gush of the shower and the glare of the too bright bathroom isn’t enough to drive them off completely.  
He’s back.  
He’s back.  
He doesn’t know how to prove it to himself but he’s back.  
He steps out of the shower, runs a hand through his damp hair, wraps a towel around his hips. He did these things once without thinking about them. Now he’s a shapeshifter. He lives someone else’s life. He speaks in someone else’s voice. And introducing: Dean Winchester as Dean Winchester. The hunt is the only thing that feels right.  
Tonight’s salt and burn was textbook simple. Digging graves and torching corpses long since turned to chalky bone and dust. Even the sudden appearance of the ghost had been like a well choreographed dance. The flare of the remains as he set them alight.  
But it wasn’t enough. All flash, no bang just like everything else. It left Dean itchy and tense. There had to be more. There was always more. He’d waited but the ghost’s remains had charred, fire ebbing to red ash and finally going out while Dean waited for the next hit.  
Sam hadn’t seemed to notice. He’d helped Dean shovel dirt back into the grave, frowning a little like he’d been doing ever since they got back together. It couldn’t have been any clearer if it had been written on Sam’s forehead. He’d been out. He’d been happy. And he’d lost it. He’d lost his little world where everything is sunny and apple pie normal. Where mail gets delivered every day but Sunday and kids ride tricycles or some shit. Dean can’t even imagine it. Not anymore. He’s tried.  
His head is too full of what ifs. Of monsters. The memories of friends dying bloody crowd behind his eyelids when he tries to sleep.  
And now the lonely whistle of wind in the trees of Purgatory.  
He’d been surprised to see them, spindly and black against the sky. Almost pretty. And peaceful. He’d never imagined Monster Central would look so normal. But that hadn’t lasted.  
He dropped his guard, just for a moment. Forgot his place. Dean looked at the sky, trying to find a star he recognized in the inky dark. The Big Dipper, something, anything. He’d been searching for stars like they could give him a sign, point him in the right direction, maybe even lead him home.  
The hit came out of nowhere. It slammed him sideways. He bounced off and went down, head spinning and shoulder aching with the impact. It growled, red eyed in the dark, clawing at him with flashing talons. Dean’s hand flew to his waistband, searching for a gun he didn’t have, a knife he’d lost somewhere along the way.  
His first impulse had been to call for Cas. He’d been calling so long already that he was hoarse. But no one came when he called. Only monsters, an endless string of fangs and claws and blood.  
This time the thing was winning. Whatever it was it had him down, had raked him with its claws. Blood blossomed on Dean’s chest before he’d had a chance to react. Teeth flashed in the dark, something that wasn’t moonlight reflecting off them. He shoved at it. Rolled. Hands scrabbling for some weapon, wishing he had his sawed off to give him some breathing room. He threw a punch into the thing’s stomach and it barely grunted. A knee to the side. Another shove. Dean growled. Another claw caught his side. In the trees nearby something moved, a second set of eyes.  
Then panic set in. Panic like he hadn’t felt since he was a kid. He wasn’t strong enough. He was losing and no cavalry was coming. No one would save him. No back up. No Sam. No Cas. Alone.  
There’s a rustle and Dean whirls, lashing out on instinct. Hand to the throat, fist ready to throw punches. He has Castiel backed against the bathroom wall before he knows what he’s doing. “Cas. What are you doing here?” Dean asks, chest heaving, adrenaline pumping so hard his head spins. There’s already sweat rising on his bare skin. He shivers.  
“I came to check on you. And Sam,” Castiel says. After a moment, he pulls Dean’s hand from the lapel of his trench coat, tugging it free effortlessly. Dean looks at his fist, wrapped in Castiel’s long fingers. Gentle. Dean had forgotten what that felt like, too.  
Then reason sets in again. No. Wrong. He flinches away, yanking his hand back against his chest and Castiel lets him without comment. Dean retreats, turning his back, but he keeps an eye on Castiel in the mirror over the sink. Neither of them speaks. Dean splashes water on his already wet face, palms it out of his eyes. He should say something. He knows it. But it’s still hard to remember what they used to talk about, what they did. They were friends once. But now…?  
He can feel Castiel’s eyes on him. Not a trace of crazy to mask their focus, the pain lurking in their depths. Dean doesn’t remember ever feeling so uncomfortable under their steady, blue gaze. How much does Castiel know? And how much can he read straight from Dean’s soul? Can he see the marks on it, black and blue and red? A patchwork of Purgatory. What does he look like to Castiel now?  
He splashes more water into his face, practically drowning himself. When he looks up next, he’s alone.  
Dean sighs, not sure if he’s pleased or disappointed. This game is easier with Sam.  
Dean pulls on fresh clothes and pads barefoot out of the bathroom. He stops.  
The TV is on, volume low as a whisper, and Castiel perches on the edge of Dean’s bed, hands folded in his lap. Straight backed as a kitchen chair. The light from the screen flickers over his face, painting the quirk of his lips in blues and reds. Sam snores from the opposite bed. Oblivious.  
Dean checks the screen, wondering what channel Castiel chose this time. He expects PBS or something educational. What he finds is a woman with manicured nails demonstrating kitchen gadgets on the Home Shopping Network. She waves her hands over the plastic dome of the thing that’s selling for the bargain price of 59.99. Dean can’t even tell what it’s supposed to do. He frowns.  
“Is that a dehydrator?”  
Castiel glances at Dean and then back at the screen. “I believe it makes yogurt,” he says. One eyebrow drifts up and his head tilts. “Or possibly eggs.”  
Dean hesitates another second before he settles on the bed beside Castiel. The cheap mattress sags so low he’s afraid it might tip them both onto the floor but it holds, if only just. They sit, shoulders grazing warm against each other. “Isn’t there anything better on? Like a movie?”  
By now the woman has stopped trying to hawk the domelike monstrosity and has moved on to something easier. This time it’s a set of knives. She brandishes the sharpening steel with a flourish before swapping it for a tiny, pointed dagger of a paring knife. The shining blade draws his eyes. The flash.  
“You should sleep,” Castiel says. “You’ve yawned three times already.”  
“I’m fine,” Dean snaps back. Then he reaches across and pulls the remote from Castiel’s hand. “Nothing, nothing, nothing,” he mutters under his breath as he skips past commercials, a show with a nun, and some old sitcom with a laugh track.  
They sit like that for hours, until birds start chirping in the predawn gloom and Dean sags heavily against Castiel’s side. He yawns again, not even bothering to hide it anymore.  
“Sleep,” Castiel says, quiet but firm.  
“Yeah, yeah,” Dean grumbles but he doesn’t argue when Castiel presses a hand to his chest. He lies back on the bed, eyes already closed and feet flat on the floor. “Just for a minute. We got work to do.”  
“It can wait.”  
“Some swamp monster out east,” Dean mumbles.  
Castiel nods.  
“Sam thinks it might be a fairy thing… but fairies have wings… right… like Tinkerbell… and they don’t eat people…”  
“Stop talking, Dean.”  
“Don’t tell me what to do,” Dean says, voice thick with sleep. “Don’t wanna sleep. Monsters…”  
Castiel nods again, mouth tight. “They’re gone now.”  
Dean makes a noise but whether it’s assent or denial, Castiel cannot tell. Dean falls silent, breath heavy and deep. Castiel waits. This isn’t sleep. Not yet. They’ve played this game before.  
“Glad… you’re back.” Dean’s brow furrows as he tries to hold onto consciousness and fails.  
A murmur escapes his lips, barely more than a sigh, and Castiel knows he’s finally asleep. “I never abandoned you,” Castiel says, “though at times it may have seemed that way.” He slumps. More quietly he adds, “Perhaps it would be better for you if I had.”  
Dean’s sprawled across the bed, one thigh brushing Castiel’s side. He frowns in his sleep now. Castiel can see the lines piling up on his forehead, the circles beneath Dean’s eyes. He smoothes a hand over Dean’s forehead, brushes a finger along his temple. Dean twitches, lip curling. His hands curve into fists. Even in his sleep, he’s ready for a fight. Castiel can’t help the feeling that he is to blame. His foolishness. His hubris. Hester was wrong. It isn’t Dean that corrupts. It’s him.  
“I’m here,” Castiel says.  
The words are like salve on a wound. Dean’s face calms. His hands drop open. He doesn’t smile but he doesn’t frown quite so severely anymore.  
Castiel watches the changes, weighing them against his memories of Purgatory. The grime and the blood are gone but beneath it the man is the same. And maybe that’s why Castiel leans forward—pure impulse—and presses a kiss to the lines on Dean’s forehead as the TV chatters with prepared jokes and canned laughter.  
Dean’s skin is warm. He’s touched it before but never so intimately. He’s never lingered this way with the heat of Dean’s body radiating through him. Castiel slides lower, lips barely grazing over Dean’s nose, his lips. That’s where he stops and hovers, unsure, before dipping down and placing a proper kiss where Dean’s mouth turns down in a frown.  
“I’m sorry,” Castiel whispers, an apology to stand in for all the apologies he’s yet to speak. The ones he can’t make. There are so many. To Dean. To Sam. To his family. But he starts here with Dean, in this room, a hair’s breadth away. “Forgive me.”  
Dean opens his eyes without a flutter and Castiel knows he’s heard everything this time. But Dean just eyes the growing space between them as Castiel retreats. “Where do you think you’re going?”


End file.
